I will stay up one last hour
surrounded by the hiss of dark,
and wait for you to come.
The stiff ground will crackle
with the sounds of twigs snapping
beneath the bulk of your boots.
Your fist will pound,
beating the flesh of my door
unwilling to be ignored.
I will take your coat,
offer no drink and listen
to your echo slapping
the walls of my home.
And when you are through
shaking the bones of your finger
in my stoned face,
“Thank you,” I’ll say, “our supper is through,”
point you to the door,
turn my back like before
and wait for you to come.